but both being alike in the respect that
they are almost supernaturally knowing,
and exceedingly hard to please. Perhaps
the most salient mark by which these two
classes may be distinguished, the one from
the other, is by a difference in their respective
ages; one division of theatrical Talkers
being old, and the other young.

The old Talker is hard to please,
because he has, as he tells you, "witnessed
the performances of men and women who
really knew what acting meant." He has
seen the thing done well. He lived when
there was a school of actors, when there
was such a thing as the "grand manner,"
when an actor who took the part of a
Roman trod the stage like a Roman. It is
almost terrible to think what this Talker
has seen. He has seen the Kembles. He
has seen all the great actors, separate
and together. He has seen Munden and
Fawcett, and Charles Young, and Miss
O'Neil, all at their very best, acting in the
same piece. He has seen Gentleman Jones.
You can't expect him to be satisfied with
what goes on now.

How much he has to say about Kean!
What long descriptions he gives of how
that eminent actor did certain scenes, of
his different readings, of his actions and
gesticulations, of what he did do, of what
he didn't do, and how both courses of
conduct were equally effective. He tells
how, in this scene, the great tragedian
would seize the player with whom he was
acting, by the throat, with such violence
that the public rose in alarm lest the man
should be killed; how, in another scene,
he simply remained, on the occasion of a
great crisis, motionless, with his hands
clasped over his head; and how the public
mind was equally disturbed by that effect,
as thinking he had fallen into a fit. What
comparisons this old-school Talker draws
between his idol and any of our more
modern tragedians! "When you went to
see Edmund Kean in Hamlet or Othello,
you did not say to yourself 'I am going to
see Kean,' but you said, 'I am going to
see Hamlet or Othello.' Now, how widely
different it is. You see Buskinsock, the
modern tragedian, in this or that part, but
it is always Buskinsock, and you always
feel that it is so, and you expect beforehand
that it will be so." Then, our Talker
goes on to dispose of the subject
altogether. "As an art capable of exhibiting
human passion and emotion; as a means
of lifting the spectator above the low
sordid thoughts which in the ordinary
routine of life exclusively occupy his attention;
and so taking him out of himself into
a sphere immeasurably more elevated than
that in which he ordinarily finds himself;
as an agent possessed of those glorious
capabilities, the English stage, sir, may be
said to exist no longer."

This implicit believer in the Theatre of
the Past is, in all things, wonderfully akin
to the connoisseur in whose eyes the Art of
the Past is alone worthy of respect; there
seeming to exist in both, a curious jealousy
of any attempt on the part of so unworthy a
thing as a modern artist to enter into
competition with the giants of old. But what is it
that these grumblers want? What would
they bring about, if they could have their
way? Would they have the modern artists
of every denomination come forward, like
the magicians in the Acts of the Apostles,
and burn their stock-in-trade, making at
the same time some such proclamation as
this: "We are impostors and pretenders.
We have been attempting to do what we
have no vocation for doing. We have
called ourselves artists, have sat down (as
painters) before our easels, or have (as
actors) stepped on to the boards, deeming it
possible that our doings might form part of
that great art chain of which the first links
were forged by Michael Angelo and Raphael
as painters, or by Betterton and Grarrick as
actors. Such has been our presumption,
and such our folly until now; but we will
offend no longer. Our efforts to do what
we had no right to attempt, shall cease.
You are quite correct, gentlemen of the old-
school. The arts are dead, and we will vex
their ghosts no more. As to ourselves, and
what is to become of us, that is a question
of some importance, perhaps, to ourselves,
but of none to any one else. We have not
been brought up to do anything useful, and
it may be difficult for us to know what to
turn our hands to. Our having dared to
devote ourselves to what is obviously a thing
defunct seems to suggest an attempt on our
part in the undertaking line. Such of us
as have unhappily made painting our study,
might design those combinations of weeping
willows, and urns, and inverted torches,
which are likely to be always wanted in
funereal circles; while those who were
foolish enough to engage in theatrical
pursuits might, perhaps, prove useful in
organising funeral processions on a more
effective principle than has hitherto
prevailed."

Absurd as this sounds, it seems to be
the only logical tendency of the arguments
used by the exclusive believer in the Past
with whom we are so much at issue; who